


Soap

by threewalls



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Coffee, Consent Issues, F/F, Family Drama, First Time, Gender Issues, Meeting the Parents, Other, Post-Book(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-18
Updated: 2009-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-15 03:21:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"...A necklace of roast coffee beans, that'd be the thing. I'll be better prepared another time."</em><br/>"Yeah," said Polly. "Good idea. With real soap."<br/>"Soap? How would soap work?"</p><p><span class="u">Monstrous Regiment</span>, Terry Pratchett</p><p>Warning for coffee made them do it/issues of consent and post-novel spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soap

The soap Betty had handed Polly was a greyish-pale rock. She _made it herself, house blend, and she was supplying several private households and giving the Duchess a bit of a name amongst frequent travellers..._. Betty had been looking at the door by the end of that breathless speech: "Don't ask what the secret ingredient is, please, Polly."

Scrubbing at her skin until it was pink, Polly didn't care what the dark flecks in the soap really were. They scrubbed well against her skin and were a bugger to get out of her hair, but soap was soap, and this one burned just a little, like soap should to let you know it's doing its job. Standing up out of the tub, Polly felt clean, and that was what was important.

The soldiering life generally agreed with Polly, with one exception. She liked the feeling of being clean. Not all the time, mind you. You were actively encouraged to carry as much of the landscape with you as possible, to blend in, but not so much that the enemy could smell you coming. It was a sensible policy and one Polly advocated amongst her own lads by setting a clear example. Anyone with common sense could see that being afraid of getting a bit of mud or blood on you gets in the way of soldiering. That said, when Polly got leave and went home, the first thing she did after greeting her family was go looking for the inn's one copper tub. Provided no paying customers wanted it, she told her brother to pay special attention to keeping men out of the kitchen, dragged the tub out of the corner and put the kettles on.

Tonight, Polly had thought about waiting until morning. Even after years as a soldier, she retained the sense that it just wasn't polite to invite a friend into your family's home and then run off at the first available opportunity to scrub your skin raw. Fortunately for Polly, vampires did not hold themselves to the etiquette of human beings.

Just inside the Duchess, Maladicta had stood to as though she'd just been struck and taken one long-suffering look over the room, the patrons, the bar and Polly's family (Betty, waving with the arm not carrying little Susanna; Paul, grinning; Polly's father; her stepmother-- Jack, arms enthusiastically around Aunt Polly's thighs).

"Where am I sleeping?"

"Um," said Betty. "We're a bit full tonight. Is Polly's room all right? Do you want a--"

But Mal had already turned to Polly. "Your room; which one is it?," and that had really been that. No need to worry about smoothing things over after Mal's introduction (tall, dark and pale, carrying a sword, tended to make Mal's introductions for her, even before she got around to showing off her ribbon), tell yet another inn night-crowd that the woman in the uniform was Paul's prodigal sister. No, all Polly had to do was point the way to her room-- and then go put the kettles on.

As Polly scrubbed a towel over her hair, wondering if this had been a bad idea. Polly preferred Mal to other soldiers under her. They've served together from the start, long enough that Mal looked the part of junior soldier much better than she once had. Polly has gotten used to having Mal around, even if her uncanny knack for pre-empting Polly's orders sometimes got on her nerves.

It had seemed natural to suggest Mal come spend the holiday with Polly's family if she didn't want to visit her own. Betty was always asking about Mal in her letters, though perhaps that was because she was one of the few soldiers Polly mentioned that Betty had met. ( _We must be winning the war, as the Duchess is now getting a better class of traveller. We have invested in an espresso machine. It is a great success! How is Maladicta?_ ) Mal did not write letters, to Betty, or anyone else. Mal never went home. Polly wasn't sure if vampires didn't have family to go home to, or whether Mal specifically didn't want to see hers. Polly didn't always go home every time leave was parcelled out herself. Either way, it was a question Polly didn't need to ask.

Polly had had a lot of questions over the years-- you couldn't command effectively if you didn't understand your subordinates' strengths, weakness and proclivities. In Polly's army, that meant knowing a whole lot of not quite obvious information about trolls, dwarves and well, young men, that Polly preferred to pick up without looking as though she was asking. But when you listened to people talking about vampires, nearly everyone got the obvious bits right, the blood and being not quite dead, but nearly everyone's favourite topics about vampires were the killing thereof. Very few people knew about the Pledge, or anything useful about how to show your tolerance/acceptance of lifestyles other than your own. 'People', in Polly's opinion, were often very stupid.

Eventually, Polly started taking her questions directly to Mal. She now knew more than she probably ever wanted to about vampires. Catch Mal after a series of espressos and you found yourself trying in vain to stop an explanation about blood being a substitution for, well, _intimacy_ and vampires preferring the sorts of victims they would have tried to pick up in a tavern if they were still human. That was the thing about vampire lore. It all sounded like gothic romantic garbage until it came out of Mal's mouth.

Then, it just sounded like authoritative garbage.

Someone tapped on the door, and then opened it anyway, while Polly was still scrambling for the clean shirt left out for her. But it was only Betty, carrying two steaming cups of coffee on a tray, one miniature and one in a proper-sized mug.

"We were looking forward to seeing how Mal would like Paul's espresso. He's been working on it special since I told him you were both coming."

The coffee in the mug was covered over with white foam, dusted over with what had to be cinnamon from the smell of it, swirled about to form a sort of intricate leaf pattern. That alone told Polly that her brother had laboured over her coffee.

"He does it with toothpicks," Betty said, smiling. Polly found that now her smile felt barely forced. Home could be such a nice place to visit.

\---

"Who is it?"

"Polly. I've got an espresso with your name on it."

"Urgh... Leave it on this side of the door and go away."

Mal sat on Polly's mattress, in the farthest corner of the not particularly large room. She had her arms folded tightly across her chest and faced the wall, not the door or Polly. Or the coffees, which showed how ridiculous she was being.

Polly set the tray down and shut the door.

"Right. What's going on?" Polly strode over, dropping to her knees on the mattress and reached for one of Mal's arms. But at Polly's touch, Mal inhaled sharply.

"Not you, too." Her voice hissed out through her teeth.

As Mal turned, Polly noticed two things: that Mal's eyes were red and that she was moving very fast. Well, actually, Polly had only time to notice the colour before Mal leapt towards her, knocking her flat down her mattress. The rest came with Mal's cool nose pressed firmly against Polly's jugular, now thumping at double. Not her teeth, mind you, just her nose, but that was unsettling enough. Polly blushed furiously to show her outrage, but she wasn't sure Mal noticed it.

Mal was heavier than she looked, but in a way that felt strong rather than that she was crushing Polly. Mal's nose glided just close enough to feel nothing but Mal's breath on her skin. Polly was only sure when Mal touched her because Mal's nose was cool and Polly's skin seemed overheated. Perhaps her bath had been too hot.

"Mal, the Pledge! Not one drop! You don't want to do this!"

"You should have run."

As quick as a knife thrust, Mal's tongue stabbed out of her mouth and onto Polly's collarbone. It was even cooler, or perhaps the trail of wet just made it feel that way. This made even less sense to Polly. She had never heard of any kind of preparation required before a bite. Mal's tongue moved faster than her nose had, though it canvassed the same territory, following her neck to the space behind her ears with thin, cool stripes and always, always returning to Polly's neck, just under her chin.

Polly felt like her skin was paper thin, like her veins could not contain the blood she could hear rushing in her ears. And so, she began to struggle. Polly once heard a story in the Duchess, one night, by a man who claimed to have survived a vampire. He said that he'd grappled with the monster, eventually freeing his hands and digging his nails into the vampire's eyes. He'd blinded it and escaped with his life.

Struggling was a lot less effective than the man's story suggested, though Polly held the eye-blinding trick in reserve. This had to be a mistake, a joke. She couldn't believe Mal would do something like this, not ever, not her sergeant. A bed was also a poor place to fight for your life. Polly couldn't get more than trivial purchase in the sheets, though she'd managed to kick one of the pillows off the bed. Mal was also stronger than she looked, her weight and disinclination to move making Polly's task impossible. Mal hadn't noticed Polly's struggles-- a boon, perhaps, since Polly had never heard that enraging a vampire ever helped anyone in this sort of situation. Polly continued to kick, struggle and grab-- until she knocked one of Mal's strong, lean legs down between her own.

Oh.

Mal started sucking on Polly's neck, all lips, no teeth, but not particularly helpful to Polly's quest to free herself. Struggling was pointless, then, even counter-productive, but Polly didn't have a choice. For some reason, Mal had started shuddering over her. Spasms of bloodlust, maybe, her sergeant finally, finally snapping.

"You-- Ah-- Your coffee is getting cold."

"You taste like coffee," Mal broke contact to groan into Polly's ear.

"I-- What?"

"I just-- It's too strong-- I need--"

Mal kept shaking, her hips shifting over Polly's thigh in a terribly distracting fashion. Polly was having difficult breathing, too fast, hyperventilating from the terror, perhaps, only she was still confused how to be afraid of *Mal*. There was a warmth growing between her legs-- oh, Polly knew about friction, the sort that trousers and a mattress afford (every now and again, it might be a tightly folded pair of socks between Polly and the trousers), but since the choice was between a fellow soldier or a whore, she'd never given much thought to how it would be with company involved. This was different, sharper and more immediate. It was distracting, and she was supposed to be using that distraction to get herself free.

Mal hadn't given up her suction hold on Polly's neck. It hurt, but as Polly's eyes began to flutter from the sensation-- it felt-- it felt so much that Polly's back was arching before she'd become aware of it, pressing closer to Mal's mouth. To Mal's teeth.

It was so hard remembering to struggle. Polly could tell herself that it helped to take hold of Mal's shirt, to try to shift the fabric for some useful and practical reason like pulling Mal off. Nothing to do with needing to press her hands against the cool skin on the small of Mal's back. Polly felt weak and out of control, needy for the rolling pressure of Mal's thigh between Polly's own. Warmth spread from her belly to her limbs, like water lapping on a river's bank before a storm, the waves growing higher and higher.

But the storm hit Mal, not Polly. Her body arced, her head jerking up past Polly's face with her teeth bared. She growled a low, feral cry as her whole body went rigid and then spasmed, once, twice. Her fangs caught the light, long, sharp and completely pale.

Polly's heart was racing fast, the burn between her legs a steady ache. The flush on her face, over all her skin was fading with the night air rushing over instead of Mal. The sort of mark she would have on her neck would be--

"Right! What is going on?"

Everyone knew vampires could move fast when they wanted to. But not, apparently, immediately after something like that. Mal lurched for the door, stumbled and grabbed for the wall's support and gave up walking any further (stopping coincidentally close to her now cold espresso). In a way that was unfair but also somehow entirely predictable, Mal's trousers exhibited no obvious creases.

"So much for the power of trousers," Mal muttered, before throwing her head back to swallow her coffee. Polly still wore the skirt over her uniform trousers; Mal did not. But, being female and human carried different expectations than being female and vampire. Mal had worn trousers (bespoke, tailored trousers of finest black Brindisi wool) long before she joined the army.

"Lesbian seductress of the night! My parents would be so proud. Debauching young, blonde virgins!"

"What do you mean 'virgin'?"

Mal levelled a sceptical stare at Polly over the rim of the coffee mug; Polly blushed again, defiantly. She had been a soldier long enough not to let anyone talk about her in that sort of tone.

Mal returned to her coffee, or rather Polly's coffee, and drank, and drank, and drank in one long pull. She tipped the mug upside down to let the last few drops of coffee trickle into her mouth. People talked about how long vampire teeth were, but they never talked about vampire tongues. Polly didn't know about other vampires, but Mal's tongue looked very long, and it was distracting watching her swallow, the smooth motion of her throat. Mal frowned into the empty mug, and licked her lips.

"You said I smelt like coffee."

"You do! Everyone here does. What is wrong with this town? Do you all bathe in Eau de Caffeine?"

"We do not-- Oh," Polly said. "Not quite. Betty-- Shufti makes this soap, with little dark specks of--"

"Coffee. You're all exfoliating with coffee. How invigorating that must be for you."

Mal began pacing, keeping an equal distance from the bed. She had wrapped her long arms around her body and walked with her shoulders raised and none of her usual careless grace.

"When one first changes, humans are suddenly different. They smell like--" Mal pulled at her collar, loosening it. "Well, that's neither here nor there, but wearing the ribbon one stops listening to that smell. We are not were-- not rude creatures subject to physical whims. We can choose what fragrances appeal. I chose coffee, the ripe bitter smell of crushed beans, but then everyone here smelt of-- I thought I'd gone mad."

"So, the coffee made you do-- that." To me, Polly thought, and I let you. The bruise on her neck throbbed, ached when she turned her head. Polly had folded her hands together in her lap. That ached as well, but not unpleasantly.

"You, I can resist. Assorted sundry travellers who use coffee as deodorant, I can resist. My coffee-scented Corporal, that's just cruel."

"So, you didn't like it?"

"Like it? Are you blind, Perks, or perhaps insensate? I liked it all over your thigh."

I let you, Polly thought, and you wanted to, not just the coffee, and I wanted to, not just because you were pinning me down-- in fact, the pinning down was probably a highlight --but then I let you stop, and now we'll just keep talking about it without really talking about it until I forget to ask the only important question left.

"Do you want to do it again?" Polly asked. "I won't be a virgin, the second time."

Mal's head whipped around to look at Polly. She looked at Polly like she'd bathed in coffee, not dilute brewed out grounds bound with pan-grease and ash from the grate, but really good coffee. Polly flushed again.

"And I want kisses first," Polly said. "We forgot that last time."

Polly's bed was made for one, but they fit so long as they were pressed together. Mal's mouth was wet and a little cool. Polly had always thought of herself as straight and thin, but Mal had even fewer curves and the same number of elbows and knees to navigate. It was Polly's turn on top first, and then they rolled over for Mal. It was quicker on top, Polly discovered, easier to find just the right rhythm against Mal's thigh, but there was also something satisfying about Mal's weight above her, and the whole long line of Mal's back to touch. At some point, they broke contact to struggle out of their clothes, curling up beneath the quilt to touch with sticky hands. Mal's skin was cool to Polly's mouth, pleasantly cool in contrast to her own overheated body. Mal licked the coffee from Polly's skin, inhaled it from her hair.

The third time was even better.


End file.
